


Silver Fox, Blue Eyes

by Sylla_Headhunter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Keitor month2020, Lotor is fae, M/M, We have the power of Satan and Keitor on our side, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylla_Headhunter/pseuds/Sylla_Headhunter
Summary: Day Four: PrisonerThe iron surrounding him is killing him and Lotor, prince of the Fae and currently trapped inside his silver fox hide, doesn't care to resist anymore. Until he is being rescued by one of the people responsible for his dilemma.
Relationships: Keith/Lotor (Voltron)
Kudos: 32
Collections: Keitor Month 2020





	Silver Fox, Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> It's a simple prompt! Why did I come up with Lotor as a faerie prince for it you ask? Because I can, that's why. Everything else is irrelevant

There is iron around his body and he hates it.

Lotor snarls, fur bristling with unbridled fury and something he refuses to name fear, his paws pacing the small place that is left for him – the small part of his prison that doesn't burn him like it were to shove burning coals down his throat. The iron smell, so like human blood, makes him gag from time to time without being able to do much against it. He had been wantonly negligent, walking right into a trap as his mind succumbed to the exhaustion and hunger his body had been plagued with for days now.

Now he is trapped with no way out and it infuriates him to no end.

The entrance to the strange tent he has been brought in to moves, stirring in the wind, and Lotor feels his sinewy body tense, a defensive growl ripping from his throat. He tries to scent the air, tries to ascertain the other one’s intentions but the scent of iron claws at his senses and he gives up with a choked up whine. He can’t even _see_ properly, his very being quaking at the iron tickling at his feet.

“It’s alright.”  
The rough voice almost makes him jump, only his hardened will calming the instincts that tell him to flee from this place – the instincts that would have thrown himself at the iron bars around him, probably. The voice’s owner makes their way over to his cage and he can finally see enough of them to mark them as male. Dark hair, short by his own standards but rather long for human one’s, hangs into his eyes and he is wearing a poorly fitting uniform. His eyes are narrowed but Lotor cannot read his expression. There seems to be no malice present but he will not bargain on his own judgment of a foreign species.

“Are you hungry?”  
Lotor’s ears perk up as he tries to read the male’s voice, tries to filter his emotions from the words spoken to him. The meaning escapes him until the male rattles a small box with one hand. It contains some sort of dry biscuit, Lotor’s eyes observe, and he sniffs in disgust before he can help himself, his hackles rising again. The male barks a sound that makes him snarl back in response.

“Okay, fine, fine. I get it. No dog food for you.”  
 _Dog food? Insolent fool!_

“I’ll come back with something else, alright?”  
The male looks at him once, his eyes various shades of grey.

“Wait here.”  
And then he vanishes again, leaving Lotor alone in the cage that’s slowly closing in around him.

The next day, Lotor wakes to the enticing scent of fresh meat, left just in front of his muzzle. He scarves it down after sniffing it a few times, making sure that it is not poisoned, although it might not even make a difference. He has just prolonged his suffering for another day, the iron eating at his conscience ever so slowly. It hurts to think about it, so he just closes his eyes again and contemplates the idea of throwing himself at the iron bars to end his misery earlier.

No one visits him while he is conscious enough to see or hear them. He is glad about that.

“What’s wrong with him?”  
The voice seems vaguely familiar, floating in and out of his consciousness like languid waves lapping at his thoughts. He can’t seem to open his eyes, can’t lift his head. He is powerless, his thought process shattered as hands cup his head and draw him away from the iron bleeding into his body. He whines roughly, voice almost gone, and feels arms drawing his body ever closer, warmth seeping into his brittle bones. Soothing words are being murmured into his soft ears, fingers carding through his matted fur and he drifts away again, nose filled with the scent of smoking wood and copper.

There is singing when he wakes up. Soft, quiet hitching of a voice unaccustomed to such a task, rough tongue stumbling along words it isn’t familiar with and Lotor blinks, eyes yanking themselves open to reveal a view he has never seen in his entire life.

His body is draped across two legs stuck in a dark kind of armor made out of leather, following lean muscles as it does whenever worked well with. A hand scratches behind his ears languidly and he almost leans into it, forgetting himself for a moment, until the fog is lifted and he can think clearer and scramble to safety, to freedom. The overpowering scent of iron is gone – finally! He is free!  
That is until he falls over and almost tumbles to the ground, his legs far too weak to carry him. A soft chuckle cuts the singing short.

“Hey, don’t do that. It’s dangerous – the old woman told me you’d have to recover for a while, you know?”  
Lotor feels his nose twitch before turning around, blue eyes meeting gray and squinting suspiciously.

The other man laughs again, a sound that seems to try and calm his frazzled nerves. It is all the more suspicious then, Lotor decides.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I’m uh… I’m sorry about the iron. I didn’t know.” A dark cloud seems to pass over the face in front of him. “They did.”  
Quite obviously, since they had probably wanted to keep him and sell him to the highest bidder. Is that not what this man intends as well? Why else would he keep him company?  
“I’m sorry about that.”  
The words startle him almost worse than anything else did. Why is this man prostrating himself in front of him, laying his life down for Lotor to take it? Does he not know the gravity of such words?!  
“I would like to make it up to you however I can.”  
A yelp leaves Lotor’s mouth without him wanting to release it and he jumps at the man, snarling viciously. He is in no need for a bond forged between him and a human! He needs no debt weighed upon his shoulders apart from a life debt he already owns!  
The human, however, just stares back at him, gray eyes judging him silently – almost like an animal himself. He lifts one hand and places it on Lotor’s head, warmth flooding the space between them like a silent promise.

“I want to make it up to you”, he repeats, softly. And Lotor, curse him, lets his snarl fade away into nothingness.

Keith wakes up to a soft snout nuzzling his chin and he breaks into a smile, his fingers pushing the silver fox away from his face.

“Stop that”, he demands sleepily. The fox yaps at him and it makes him laugh.

“I’m serious. Let me sleep some more….”  
There is rustling next to him, soft fur disappearing from between his fingers until a slender digit begins to draw idly on his cheekbone. Keith arches into the touch until his stomach drops and he looks up (and up and up) towards the fox that has been sitting next to him.

He is gone.

There is, however, someone else now, someone with pale blue eyes and a silvery mane flowing down his face to cover part of his blessedly naked body, an amused smile adorning his lips, mirrored by the way his eyes glint in the small amount of daylight illuminating his entire body.

“Hello”, he purrs softly enough to make Keith’s soul leave his body through breathless lips. “I believe I was promised something.”  
The man bends until his mouth is next to Keith’s ear, a soft puff of air escaping it.

“You said you wanted to make it up to me.” And he smiles, wickedly soft, one of his long fingers curling around a dark lock of hair. “Well? Are you still up for it?”


End file.
